Prosecco, Secrets, and Pumpkin Cookies
Sloane
“I’m telling you, Lina… I can’t give you the details. It’s top secret.”
I bite my lip—harder than intended—to keep myself from spilling everything to one of my best friends. Everything.
Like how indecently sexy my new client is.
Like how he’s driving me absolutely insane.
Like how it’s becoming physically impossible to focus on work when his voice clings to me for hours.
“Top secret, sure,” Lina repeats, rolling her pale eyes as she grabs another tray of cookies. “Might I remind you that you are Miss ‘Miss-Don’t-You-Dare-Keep-Secrets-From-Me’?”
“This is not a secret I want to keep!”
I mean it. And honestly, I have no idea how much longer I’ll last before this forbidden topic explodes out of me.
Ugh… when did I become so bad at my job?
Lina—currently decorating pumpkin-shaped cookies with the precision of a heart surgeon—barely lifts her gaze.
Her short hair is pulled into two tiny fuchsia pigtails sticking out on each side, and the little hoop in her nose gleams under the warm kitchen light.
“He’s driving me out of my mind,” I finally confess, dropping my head into my hands.
“Who?” she asks in a very unconvincing innocent tone.
“I can’t tell you!”
My hands itch to grab my hair and yank.
“Then don’t complain,” she sings, swiping a bit of frosting with her finger and tasting it.
I glare at her, then reach for the Prosecco bottle on the counter.
“Oh no. Sloane Heart is drinking. It’s official—we’re doomed.”
“I need it,” I mumble, popping the cork with a sharp crack.
The cork ricochets off the ceiling. Fantastic.
Lina peers over her glasses like she just relived a past trauma.
“I remind you that a drive exists with photographic evidence of your poor tolerance, right? Spring 2023, Tulip Festival party? Two Spritzes, and you started asking everyone if they wanted to join your Cupid’s Agency.”
I clap my hands over my ears. “Lies. And anyway, it was networking.”
“Sure. And when you ate those rum chocolates at Christmas and serenaded the mayor with Santa Baby, that was…?”
“A dosage error.”
Seriously. Why did Mother Nature give me the alcohol tolerance of a squirrel? Who gets tipsy eating rum-filled chocolates?
I burst out laughing, remembering the mayor’s face.
And for the record—Mayor Nino loved my performance. He still calls me Santa Baby and asks me every year to join the Christmas karaoke contest.
Lina laughs too, her fuchsia pigtails bouncing like little pom-poms.
“Alright, lightweight. Just drink slowly. I refuse to explain to Rae why you’re congratulating the microwave again.”
I huff and pour myself a glass before grabbing a cookie from the tray.
A pumpkin-shaped one with perfect frosting and soft white-chocolate filling.
I take a bite. Holy heavenly meltdown.
“Okay, these should be illegal,” I mumble with my mouth full.
Lina beams. “I know. They’re for the Autumn Festival tomorrow.”
The kitchen door swings open and Rae walks in like a woman on a mission—with half a forest caught in her scarf.
“Perfect! We’re already celebrating? Because I have news. I found us the extra kitchen help we need for the holiday season!” she announces, bright as ever.
Lina groans, setting the piping bag down. “Ugh. I’m the kitchen help.”
“No, you’re the head chef,” Rae says with an eye roll. “We still need extra hands for when you’re traveling, on vacation, or—oh, I don’t know—off on a quest for the perfect food coloring.”
Lina squints at her. “We already have people who cover for me.”
“Those chefs are going to be busy,” Rae counters, crossing her arms as a strand of red hair falls onto her forehead. “You’re getting help. Non-negotiable.”
I sip my Prosecco, amused and relieved that—for once—I’m not the subject of the argument.
Lina turns to me, then back to Rae. “Sloane is still distressed over her new client, who is top secret,” she says, stressing the words dramatically.
I know she hates that I'm hiding something, but she’s hiding something too. She hasn’t been the same since she got back.
And we’re all total gossip gremlins. We live for juicy details.
Rae laughs, then pins me with her adoptive-mom stare. “Speaking of top secret—where’s Ivy?”
Yes, Rae is helping me matchmake her daughter. Adorable mother behavior.
“Shouldn’t you know?” I tease. “She’s your kid.”
“You’re her best friend, Sloane. You should have a tracker on her.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
We look at each other for exactly one second before bursting into synchronized laughter.
“She’s probably with Cam,” we say at the same time. Lina groans dramatically.
“No one tells me anything anymore! Who’s Cam now?”
Rae snickers, grabbing a cookie. “It’s not our fault you just got back!”
She gives Lina a look—yeah, Rae has noticed something’s off too.
“I was away for work! And you could’ve updated me instead of sending me Leo memes!”
She tosses the towel on the counter, pretending to be offended… then cracks up because Ivy’s cat memes are impossible not to laugh at.
I take another sip—too fast, maybe—and Lina narrows her eyes at me.
“Sloane, I swear, if you start telling me about your imaginary crushes in your operetta voice again, I’m filming you in 4K.”
Well… they’ll need more storage soon.
Yes, my best friends have a shared drive of photos and videos of me tipsy across all four seasons.
They’re terrible friends.
“It won’t happen,” I lie.
Because the truth is… my brain is still stuck on Cohen Becker.
On the way he looks at me, the way he challenges me, the way he single-handedly destroys years of professional discipline with one stupid smirk or one teasing comment.
I sigh, set the glass down, and let out another hopeless groan.
“He’s really driving me crazy. I can’t wait to match him.”
Lina gestures toward the bottle. “Pour me some, so I can judge the situation properly.”
“And I need more sugar if I’m going to stay focused,” Rae adds, hopping onto a stool.
I huff and return my attention to the cookies.
And for a few seconds, I let myself believe that frosting and Prosecco might be enough to drown out the memory of Cohen Becker—and the way he made me feel that night.
And this afternoon.
Spoiler: they’re not.